It's All Dark
by pickpockets anonymous
Summary: This story is a sequal to Lionel Bart's Oliver! In short, it's what happens to Charley Bates even though he is mentioned more in the book, it is a sequel to the plot of the musical. I don't think he get's enough attention
1. 1 The Quest

It was dark. Too dark, which Charley discerned as he collided heavily with the side of an old building.

"Huh. How'd that get there?"

After the pretty colors vanished and the lights finished swirling around his head, he picked himself up and brushed himself off, shaking his head as if trying to shake the stupid out of himself. He started off running again in the same direction.

BAM!

"This damn wall!"

Slightly the wiser, but still cursing at the wall, convinced that it was its fault and not his, he continued down the filthy street. He didn't know where to go or what would become of him once he decided upon and reached a destination. All he knew was that he must keep running as fast as his tiny, malodorous feet would allow.

However, he stopped short, ignoring his conscience's advice (which he had quite a knack for).

_Why am I running in the first place?_ He asked himself, realizing just how hard that smack in the face was.

Head smarting, he pondered on this question for quite a while, but the only conclusion he could arrive at was that he was entirely too sober and needed his daily (or hourly, to be more precise) dose of gin.

Then suddenly, with a snap of his fingers, it came to him. _Oh!_

He was half running from the nosy policemen, and half running to keep up with the Dodger.

_Where is Dodge, anyway? Hmm, he must've just kept running when that wall got in the way of my face. Stupid wall!_

When he finally dragged his thoughts away from the wall (which, according to Mr. Bates, will rot in hell for all eternity and then some), he allowed them to reflect on the situation at hand, which he blamed entirely on Oliver Twist.

_Stupid giggling kid. I knew he was trouble from the start. If he hadn't gotten himself caught, he never would've met that Brownlow fellow, never would've led the beak back here, and I NEVER WOULD HAVE RUN INTO THAT STUPID WALL!_

But Charley gave some thought to the latter and realized that he was more likely than not mistaken, for it wasn't the first time that a wall had "gotten in the way of his face". It was, however, the first time that this happened when he did not have a rather large amount of gin in his hand, and an even larger amount in his bloodstream. Ahh, those were the days, when after a strenuous day of picking pockets, he and the Artful one would relax with a game of whist and an endless supply of gin. It was during such times that Charley had a rather unfortunate knack for laughing himself off of his chair. He chuckled to himself as the reminisced of those days.

Then Charley's stomach gave a rather unpleasant turn. It was just then that he realized that things probably wouldn't be the same from now on, unless he could find Dodger and Fagin. He knew he wouldn't be able to get by on his own.

_Wish I knew where Dodger was…_

Charley wasn't necessarily concerned for his friend's safety; he knew that the Artful Dodger could most certainly take care of himself. No, he was concerned for his own safety and well being.

Who would he pick pockets with? Who would compete with him to see who could obtain the most pocket-handkerchiefs and snuffboxes at the end of the day? It wasn't exactly a contest; The Artful won every time. However, Charley was catching up these days.

"Well, I'm not getting any younger," mumbled Charley, and decided that he would keep walking until he found a suitable place to stay the night.

As he walked, he thought. As he thought, he completely lost his sense of direction, for Mr. Bates wasn't exactly the king of multi-tasking. When he stopped to rest on the corner of the street, he had a difficult time recognizing anything on said street. In fact, he was completely lost, and, as far as his observations could tell him, not in a completely sanitary part of town.

"Now I really need a drink."

Coincidentally, no sooner had the words left his lips than he noticed a pub on the opposite side of the street. Without hesitation, he walked, almost ran into the establishment.

He entered unnoticed. He looked around the smoke-filled room to observe men at card games, men at drunken fights over card games, men smoking their pipes, and vicious-looking women shouting at their husbands.

_Perfect._

He went unnoticed, once again, to a particularly noisy section of the room where two men were at a game of poker. Charley's eyes went immediately to the mugs in each man's hand.

"Alright Jerry, let's see if you can beat a full house!"

The man who addressed Jerry laid his cards down on the table, making sure that they were clearly visible to his opponent. He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and, with a smirk, enjoyed the effect that the cards had on Jerry.

Jerry looked down at his own hand, then to the smirk on the other man's face, then again to his hand with a bemused expression.

"I- you- Henry you cheater!"

This accusation wiped the smirk off of Henry's face. Charley took advantage of this pending argument and sneaked under the table- plotting an attempt at the mugs of beer.

"You're calling _me_ a cheater? I saw you look at my hand at least a dozen times! A lot of good it did you, though. You need to just accept, my dear friend, that you are not the most cunning when it comes to card games."

"You're drunk."

" I might as well be!" Henry reached for his mug of beer and found it gone. "What did you do with my beer?"

"I didn't touch it!"

"I'm sure you didn't, you drunk fool!"

"Are you calling me a liar!"

Now it was Jerry's turn to reach for his beer, and discover it missing. Meanwhile, Charley sat under the table enjoying his two mugs of beer and trying to suppress his laughter.

"Wot the-"

"Oh, this argument could go on for a while. Another mug of beer?"

"I'll get it-" Jerry turned to a rather gruff looking young lady across the room.

"Alice! We need two beers over here! Hurry up woman!"

Alice complied without hesitation. Jerry took the mugs out of her hands and handed one to Henry. Both men took several gulps and slammed their mugs down on the table simultaneously.

"Now, where were we?" asked Jerry.

"I believe we were at name-calling and false accusations."

"Oh, right! Cheater!"

And thus the argument commenced once more. During which time, Charley, employing his skills, reached up and grabbed both of the mugs in a single attempt. Being rather pleased with himself, Charley Bates was convinced that if the Dodger had seen this, he would be quite proud.

Meanwhile, the two men (who, I believe, were back on "Drunk fool" and "liar") stopped for a break from their argument once more and were again disappointed at their lack of alcohol. However, before one could blame the other for the beer's disappearance, Charley's good fortune ran out.

"Haha-hic-hahaha!"

"Wot was that?"

"It came from under the table."

And there Charley was discovered.

"Hey, kid, wot's so funny?" Jerry inquired.

"Who cares wot's funny! This little prig stole our beer!"

"Now, Jerry, don't go blamin' this little chap who happened to be under the table with four empty mugs!"

Henry groaned and shook his head at his friend's idiocy. Charley continued to laugh and was now rolling on the floor, not completely aware of the situation.

"Boy, are you okay?"

"Of course he isn't! he's drunk! On _our_ beer!"

With one glance at Henry's infuriated face, Charley sobered up a bit.

"Now Henry, I told you, we don't have any proof that the boy is guilty."

And then came the inexhaustible argument. Charley became restless.

"Well, you gents-hic-make up your minds, and I s'pose I'll-hic-be off, now. So long!"

And with that, Charley walked out of the door, unnoticed by his preoccupied friends, and much more relaxed than when he had entered.

The rest of the night was somewhat of a blur to Charley. He awoke quite early the next morning.

"Hey, that tree is moving!"

He rubbed his eyes and looked about him, trying hard to remember the events of the previous night. He was relieved to discover that it was _he _and not the tree that was moving. He was lying on the back of a carriage, among several bails of hay. He hadn't the foggiest idea how he had gotten there or where the carriage was headed, but did not let this fact dampen his spirit. Instead, he looked with anticipation at the sun rising over the fields that quickly passed by him.

"Can't wait to see where this takes me!"


	2. An Honest Living

The carriage rolled along the dusty, winding road. According to a stone road mark, the carriage and its passengers were entering Northamptonshire. It was almost mid-day, and Charley realized just how hungry he was as his stomach emitted a rather large growl. After all, he hadn't eaten since early in the previous afternoon. He looked over the beaten path and scanned the surrounding scenery for any sign of a place that might provide sustenance for his noisy stomach. A tree…¦a field…¦a tree in a field…¦a farm. A farm!

Just as Charley was preparing to quit himself of the carriage, the latter hit a larger-than-average-sized hole in the road and Charley, along with several bales of hay, was thrown from the carriage and onto the path with a loud thud. Apparently not to shaken from this incident, Charley, with his head held high like that of a toff, as if he had gracefully relieved the carriage of himself as opposed to having been thrown from it, whipped out his pocket-handkerchief and wiped an imaginary tear from his eye in mock distress at seeing the carriage stroll away. Charley very much enjoyed being over-dramatic. He then strode off in his direction of choice, humming a tune (something about how parting was such sweet sorrow) that he had learned from Fagin.

The farm was not too far away, and Charley had nearly reached the stables when he realized that he hadn't a plan of attack. He couldn't very well just walk into the establishment; he would surely be seen by the young man feeding the sheep not too far ahead of where Charley was standing. And so he was.

Before he had had a chance to conceal himself properly, Charley was being approached by the young man previously described. His face and arms were rather sun-beaten, and he sported patched trousers and a shirt, which Charley was certain must have seen better days, perhaps the days when the dinosaurs roamed the earth. His feet were bare and filthy, but he seemed, based on his benevolent countenance, to be a quite well mannered fellow.

"H'lo there. What can I do for yeh, Tadpole?"

_Tadpole?  
_

Mr. Bates, deciding it best to ignore the latter part of the young man's address, decided to lay it on thick.

"Please, sir, I haven't a place to stay. I haven't eaten in days! My poor, blistered feet have seen many miles, day after day, week after week, month after-"

Here, noticing that he already had his audience's undivided attention, he decided to take it down a notch.

"Well, in short, sir, I'm a mess."

"Gee, that's awful unfortunate. 'Ope yer luck improves." Said the young man, his attention being drawn away from Charley and to a rather large sheep being chased by a rather small pig.

"Wait! I have more!" Said Charley. "Ah, --- where was I, day after day, week after-oh! Right! I was beaten and stoned and ill-treated! I- I suffer from the influenza!"

Here Charley burst into a sudden fit of coughing and sneezing.  
"Well, in that case, I'd better get yeh out of the cold. Follow me, Tadpole, and I'll get yeh something to eat."

Charley complied, opting not to point out the fact that it was mid-summer and the weather was uncomfortably warm. He smiled to himself; he was having way too much fun with this.

"What's yer name, kid?" Asked the young man as they entered the small cabin in which the young man lived.

"Charley." 

He was no longer smiling, as he did not like being referred to as "kid" or "Tadpole"; he was not much younger than the young man.

"Pickett's the name," said the young man proudly, sounding as though Charley had asked with interest. "Joseph Pickett."

Charley was fed well and offered lodgings, which he accepted gratefully. He and Joseph were sitting at the kitchen table discussing world issues, and how the world would run so much smoother if Charley was king, when they were interrupted by a man, this one being by no means young.

"Who's yer friend, Joseph?" inquired the man, who's attire was of the same quality as the younger's.

Joseph explained to his father Charley's situation.

"Well, of course yer always welcome here." Mr. Pickett said to Charley. "Joseph hasn't been too bothersome, has he?"

"No, sir, he's been very kind."

"Heh. Well, give it a day or two, you'll see. Boy hasn't got the sense the Good Lord gave a goose. Not too much to look at either. Why, poor Mrs. Pickett! She looked into that face just after he was born and has been blind ever since!"

Joseph didn't seem to be paying attention to his father's analysis of him; instead he was slapping himself in the face where a fly had been not a second before.

"Well, you'd better be off to bed! Busy day tomorrow, Charley. You've got to earn your keep, you know."  
Charley thought that "you've got to earn your keep" didn't have quite as nice a ring as "you've got to pick a pocket or two", which had always been the motto by which he lived religiously. But for the first time in his life, Charley had an epiphany.

_Maybe an honest living won't be so bad…I won't have to live in fear of the beak, and I have food and a place to stay…_

Of course he had that while under Fagin's apprenticeship, but an honest living didn't sound quite so bad after all…

The next morning Charley was awoken by a startling noise that caused him to sit up sharply in his bed and hit his head on a shelf just above him.

"Don't hurt me! Ouch…"

He looked out the window and found the source of the noise. A large rooster was sitting on the fence post just below his window and was crowing away loudly.

"_Cock-a-doodle-SQUAWK_!" Was the last sound to be heard from this particular rooster, for Charley had chucked something large and heavy at it.

"That's better."

He got dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen, where poor Mrs. Pickett fed him generously. No sooner had he swallowed his last bite than Joseph Pickett entered, informing Charley that it was time to "Give the cows their brikfist."

The day was filled with activities that Charley had never done before. He fed the cows, of course; he sheared the sheep; he cleaned the stables. However, the most memorable part of his day happened to be the catching of the pig, and here's what happened:

Joseph and Charley were heading back from the stables after all the chores of the day were completed.

Charley was considerably tired, never having worked so hard in his life, unless you count dodging the suspicious, nosy policemen.

Charley let out a yawn, and since his mouth was already open decided to start a conversation with Joseph. But Joseph wasn't there.

"AAAAAHH!"

Charley looked behind him and saw Joseph lying on the ground. A small pig, the same small pig that Charley had seen earlier had knocked Joseph off of his feet and was now running away from Charley and Joseph and across the field.

Charley looked from Joseph to the runaway pig for several seconds, trying with all his might to stifle his laughter. He didn't succeed for very long.

"C'mon, Tadpole, don't just stand there like a fool!" Said Joseph, already on his feet and starting off after the pig. Charley brought up the rear, extremely amused at the situation.

They spotted the pig after a minute or two, and followed it left, right, left again; the three were quite a sight. The pig seemed to be enjoying the situation almost as much as Charley who was having a hard time keeping up, as he was laughing uncomfortably hard.  
Joseph, running at a remarkable speed, caught up with the pig and pounced on it, pinning it down with all of his weight.

Charley, who was several yards away, replaced his laughter with a low chuckle, and hurried to help Joseph.

"Cor! He's not too bright but he sure can run!"


End file.
